


Walking with Shadows

by OasisTrap



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Flashbacks, Gore, Islamabad, Karachi, Loss of Virginity, New York City, Spooks - Freeform, Suspense, dark!Sherlock, moles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OasisTrap/pseuds/OasisTrap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach with Pre-THoB flashbacks. Sherlock discovered a part of him he would never acknowledge. Irene came back to life just to have it threatened like never before. Mycroft crossed a line and put all of their lives in jeopardy. Someone is pulling the strings left by Jim Moriarty and no one is safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! The gore part won't come in the early chapters, and this is WIP so I might add additional tags along the way. I've written almost 40% of the overall storyline but I won't be able to update regularly until next month. I promise you blood, with or without murder, and maybe some Adlock moments.
> 
> The title is inspired by Macbeth's most famous soliloquy that I may or may not explain later.
> 
> Beta-ed by my dear friend alphamikefoxtrot at fanfiction net
> 
> Important note: all my knowledge about British Intelligence Services are from tv shows
> 
> This chapter took place after The Reichenbach Fall

Empty stares that Mycroft Holmes received from his hosts were not unlike the features of his superiors twenty hours ago when he was presenting his proposal for this highly confidential project of great importance. In the end, the Americans were more skeptical, whereas Whitehall merely shrugged and admitted themselves into unwilling agreement. This most likely was the result of Mycroft’s differing deliverance of information to both sides.

 

* * *

 

_“We’re not the Americans. We don’t do indelicate, violent measures. We acquire an asset and we invest in it. We let it go. It will lead us down the rabbit hole eventually.” He said as he stapled both his hands under his chin. “This operation is necessary to take over the control of a valuable asset that was once ours. This asset is more likely to be damaged in their incompetent hands.”_

_“Admit it, Mycroft. This is just you trying to make amends for losing the said asset.” The head of MI5 calmly stirred the milk in his tea with his intense stare, the spoon abandoned on the side of the cup._

_“If you put it that way, Harry, I will not object nor acknowledge it.” He was prepared to make this negotiation as harmless as possible._

_“Pakistan was a disaster.” His tone was cold. No love for failures._

_“Pakistan was a test.” Mycroft retorted in suppressed impatience._

_“For God’s sake, Holmes, we’re still trying to pick up the pieces you left by blowing all our Middle East contacts for—“_

_“Don’t overstep your jurisdiction, Tramley.” The Home Secretary snapped at the MI6._

_“Overstep **my** jurisdiction?” A scowl was directed at the man at the head of the table. “Am I supposed to believe that nonsense?!”_

_“That’s enough.” A pointed look from the head of the table sent them all into a quiet reverie. “So we recover this asset from the star-spangled bastards,” a sigh. “And then what?”_

* * *

 

“You will not succeed in developing this asset. Its motivations are too vague for your side to handle. We can control it, you can’t. It was ours in the first place. I suggest you return it to us to avoid risking any unwanted future dispute that it might trigger, considering its capability of such things.” His chair was highly uncomfortable and it didn’t allow him to move an inch without being seen as restless. But it brought out an elevated air of superiority inside him. This was a Holmes in his element, and the game was just starting. He saw the sweat breaking on the Director of the CIA’s forehead, his first small victory.

“So we give you what you want, and then what’s in it for us? Mycroft, I’m afraid I don’t see what kind of deal you are trying to strike here.”

Finally, the right question. Mycroft savoured the tension of withholding a name that will direct their attention to where he wanted. It was the longest and trickiest string that he took from the cold hands of the very much dead Jim Moriarty. The question remained; who was the puppet, Moriarty or the other person at the end of the string? This operation would produce the answer and hopefully erase the existence of Jim Moriarty from his guilty conscience forever.

“Gentlemen, allow me to reacquire the asset and I will use it to bring you the head of Sebastian Moran.”

 

* * *

 

 

Catherine Walker probably shouldn’t have opened her door to a stranger at midnight. Let alone gave him a sight of her purposely seductive nightgown. But she was convinced that the M9 pistol she held behind her back would make this encounter bearable, and she was supposed to have a hoard of undercover agents roaming around her house, watching her every move.

After all, in this side of LA, safety was the first thing their property retailers prided on when they were escorting their potential buyers with considerable wealth and strong desire to live peacefully. Or people like her with dangerous secrets seeking for an ideal hiding place, fully funded by the taxpayers’ dollars.

She only opened it halfway through, regretted not having a chain to hold her door and made a mental note to add one. Unfortunately, it was too late.

The stranger blinked once at the light coming from inside and strengthened his jaw. He dipped his head lower to stare straight at her suspicious eyes, being two feet taller than her. There was an unimpressive display of his white and rather healthy teeth as he sneered before he rumbled in a low, threatening voice. “Irene Adler.”

He took a quick one step ahead past the door, pushing her inside.

She managed to balance herself and avoided his grip. At the same time, he slammed the door closed.

He pulled out a knife with his right hand and lurched forward to grip her right arm and restrain her from drawing the M9, but the trigger was already pulled and a bullet was wasted. One shot ought to be enough to tickle the ears of her unreliable watchers.

She twisted his right hand, pressing the significant joint of nerves she instinctively recognised with her thumb and made him drop the knife due to his immobilised fingers. With a slight kick she sent the knife sliding away out of reach.

When she attempted to twist his hand, he overpowered her. Pulling his hand free and slapped her hard on the face, forcing her to move backwards one more step into her living room.

She lifted the gun again but this time he didn’t give her any chance to shoot, grabbing her wrist so hard she could almost feel her bones breaking. The gun was gone. Any sound it made when it hit the tile floor was drowned by her loud exclamation of pain. She didn’t scream, she would never admit it.

His knee jerked upward and hit her stomach. A gust of breath left her mouth as she fell onto a glass table in the middle of the room, broke it into pieces, and sent the shards flying.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I cross-posted this fic in ffn and I'm posting this chapter to catch up with it! The next one is coming very soon. I also feel the need to apologise in advance if the quality between chapters are inconsistent, this is my first long fic and the need to tell a story sometimes overcome the decent writing process.
> 
> Beta-ed by my friend alphamikefoxtrot at fanfiction net

The leap in her heart rate constantly sent a dose of adrenaline through her veins, numbing her limbs, her bleeding wounds. A considerably long time had passed and everything was completely still. She had crawled to retrieve her M9 from the far corner of the room and was now gripping it tightly with both of her shaking hands, still trying to control her breathing. Her right hand was almost definitely broken, its fingers barely clenching the gun. She was also aware of glass shards sticking out from her back and the length of her arm, though none of them went deep enough to cause paralysing pain. Didn’t want to take any risk of getting deeper wounds, she avoided leaning to the wall and stay seated on a side of the floor where it was free of glass shards.

A rough groan filled the room, interrupting the sound of her loud breathing. The stranger was lying in the middle of the living room with both his hands and legs bound with plastic cuffs. He opened his eyes and cast a hateful glance at her, finding out that he wasn’t able to move his limbs at all. Irene smiled coldly, returning his glare as gracefully as possible with blood running down the side of her head.

She had managed to poison him with a concealed needle she hid in the modified folds of the knickers she wore. A new habit she developed after the last surveillance job mishap she experienced with a rather desperate and furious Russian criminal. He was three feet taller than her and capable of snapping her in two if wasn’t dosed by her strong mixture of sedative.

One can never be too careful in death, after all.

The thing that bothered her more than this stranger’s bold attempt to kill her was that he had been the first to call her that name ever since she died in Pakistan. The last time she heard that name spoken was by now a very much dead person. She could hear him now in her numb delusion.

_Irene Adler is dead. You’re a free woman._

Suppressing an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, she gripped the gun tighter and held her stare against the stranger’s menacing eyes. She had decided to say nothing at all, talking would give away information, no matter how small and insufficient. Him knowing she was alive was enough. After all, the name he uttered from his mouth a while ago was not a question.

It was exactly ten minutes after the accidental gunshot from their previous struggle. The front door opened forcefully and a group of men in black jackets barged in, unceremoniously grabbed the stranger and dragged him out. They moved without noise, trampling on all the mess around them in silence. Or so Irene thought, having heard nothing beside the ringing in her ears and saw blurry image of them passing her in quick strides.

A blonde woman wearing gloves and carrying a medical kit entered swiftly after their exit. She ran to her side and opened her mouth, saying something. Irene couldn’t hear her. She touched the gun in her hands gently, making her drop it helplessly. The voice she heard next was definitely not the woman’s. It was the continuation of her illusion, a low, rumbling voice of a man, now dead.

_Alright…._

_You’re going to be alright…._

Her last memory of that night was the oxygen mask she forced to put on her face, and then darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

The white ceiling of an anonymous medical bay and its medicinal alcoholic smell convinced her she had regained full consciousness.

The presence of Mycroft Holmes on her bedside felt otherwise.

“Don’t move. You are safe, for the time being.” His icy tone reached her ears. “Never get tired of misbehaving, I see, even after you’re dead,” a dangerous edge came creeping into his voice. “Twice.”

She managed a weak twitch on the corner of her lips before the pain in her head struck. She had to breathe deeply to gather herself. “To what I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mister Holmes?” She managed to say weakly. “Are you here to witness the proof of your own brother’s misbehavior in person?”

He smiled humourlessly. “How was Pakistan?”

“It was _lovely_.” She purred.

“Either you’re doing a very bad job of covering your tracks, Miss Adler,” He shifted on his foot. “Or you purposefully reveal yourself to me by playing _liaison_ in the intelligence market and getting under _my_ skin. Your apparent relationship with the Americans is…” He paused. “…putting _us_ …” The personal impression in his list of accusation was dropped. “...in an uncomfortable position. You see, they think they struck gold by marking you as their asset.” The irritated smile returned.

“Hmmm, did they?”

“They were very smug about it.”

“I’m sorry, must be so annoying for you and your Whitehall friends. But I’m not their asset, not entirely. You can see it in my contract. It’s a very _loose_ one.”

“That’s why I’m here. But first, do please tell me,”

Mycroft could sense her interest peaking. He had decided to give her the satisfaction of knowing the roots of his curiosity.

“Why would a woman who lost everything in the game came back to play it with higher stakes?”

Her smile this time was positively predatory.

“I was bored.”

He stared at her with contempt. He couldn’t hide his anger any longer. Her words had struck a nerve, a very sensitive one that he usually associated with his brother’s intolerable behaviours. The realisation of this doubled his anger. He had known her answer, that after a life full of danger she couldn’t simply submit to a domestic, mundane life. After she nearly brought down a nation to its knees, she couldn’t just forget the taste of victory over immense power, however brief it was. But her exact words were unbearable for him.

Mycroft had made the head of the CIA sweat like a pig under his intense pressure in a tricky negotiation. He had gained the approval of the most powerful men in Britain’s intelligence services, delivering a promising prospect of his mission. He did it all with a reserved manner that was seemingly effortless.

His temper was only reserved for his brother.

And now, apparently, Irene Adler had broken his carefully crafted defence.

Irene Adler, ever the dominatrix, even without her sexually domineering persona.

_Brava._

_But, be careful, Miss Adler._

He would walk away from this room as victorious as with his other negotiations. He had, after all, the advantage.

“Ever the determined woman, you are.” He sneered. “I’m here to offer you a contract with us.”

“That much I had grasped, Mister Holmes, since you mentioned your discomfort with my relationship with the Americans.” She pushed him to reveal his further intention.

“Me and my Whitehall friends, as you call them, can raise the stakes even more for you. Pakistan was meant to be a test. Now that we know you survived, we are offering you the contract that we supposed to give after Pakistan.”

“You’re planning to put a leash on me.”

“Not quite a leash,” He searched for a word. “An insurance. Your loose contract with the Americans is not enough to provide you proper protection. The assassin at your door this morning? They weren’t even trying.”

“I can walk away from their contract anytime, Mister Holmes. I assume I wouldn’t be able to do the same after I signed _yours_.”

“A very comfortable leash, then.”

“Nice try. I’m not interested.”

“What if I offer you to play on the same table with Sebastian Moran?”

A deafening silence fell for a moment.

“He doesn’t exist, Mister Holmes.”

“How could you be so sure about that? Isn’t he the one who has been trying to kill you? Aren’t you running away from him? He’s the only one smart enough to see you as a threat.”

“Sebastian Moran is a myth, only his name lives.”

“Like Jim Moriarty, once upon a time.”

“He didn’t exist either. I saw the news. He was Richard Brooke all along.” She humoured him.

Mycroft phrased his next question very carefully as it led to the most crucial part of this negotiation. “Then you believe that Sherlock Holmes is a fraud?”

Irene flinched mentally at the mention of his name. “Of course not.” _Is?_ “You’re saying he’s still alive.” She couldn’t hide the surprise in her tone. But of course, why else would Mycroft Holmes be here? Everything he said about her liaison job and Sebastian Moran had to end with Sherlock Holmes. It was about him all along.

“He is.”

She felt a foreign warmth enveloping her from the inside. _No more illusions._

“He is now in New York, chasing Moran’s tail.”

The warmth disappeared suddenly, replaced by anxiety.

 _There she is._ Mycroft read her changing expression. At the mention of his brother’s name, she had definitely lower her guard and let her emotions appear, if only shortly. He readied himself for the next line of words coming from him as if uncertain with his own judgment to bring them into this conversation.

“I did a terrible thing.” He said this to imply that he assumed the position of a lower man. _Only to bring Irene Adler into submission,_ he thought ironically as he saw that she didn’t react in any way to his statement. “I made a deduction of my brother’s heart.”

She swallowed, her throat felt terribly dry. “I don’t understand.”

“I know what happened in Islamabad.”

“That was not the matter of anyone’s heart.”

He raised his brows at her struggling indifference. “We both know it was very much otherwise, Miss Adler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Liaison here means she's playing courier and selling information from the underworld (sorry I just had to) to the American big boys (CIA, FBI, take your pick). Selling in exchange for what? Money? Sometimes. Protection? If it's big and they could manage it, why not? Mostly she just love playing the game, discovering what people like ;) I always thought that's what she's going to do if she couldn't become a dominatrix anymore after Pakistan.
> 
> But what the hell happened there?
> 
> I'm not telling. Review first.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by alphamikefoxtrot at ffn

_Click._

As he suspected, at this height and wind velocity, the lighter in his hand wouldn’t give a spark at first try. So he slipped back the stun gun in his other hand into his pocket to shield the lighter from the wind, bending slightly with a cigarette between his lips, he flicked his thumb again.

_Click._

_Damn this cheap American lighter._

_Where are they? They should be here five minutes ago._

_Click._

A spark died out.

_Click._

The rooftop access door swung open.

He didn’t bother looking. He couldn’t care less. They wouldn’t ask any question or regard him in any way. He knew they dislike him, even though he was the one doing all the work for them and all they have to do was clean his mess. It was not unlike his job before this.

_Click._

For a moment he was taken aback by the sound of footsteps coming his way.

_Light, swift, a woman’s._

She was alone.

He frowned and straightened himself to finally look properly at the person coming his way. When he saw a glimpse of her face, he returned to his lighter and flicked it forcefully for the last time. It lit up and he inhaled his cigarette deeply, somehow needing a reason to explain the waver in his chest to himself other than _the woman_.

As she approached, Irene scrutinised the sight in front of her: Sherlock Holmes stood towering beside a body on the ground, smoking his cigarette with calm. He looked paler than the last time she saw him. His hair was much shorter without curls, although long enough that the wind could blow a strand covering his right eye.

Not wanting to give a wrong impression by staring at his face for longer than necessary, she diverted her attention to the unconscious man. She noted his uneven breathing and the slight tremor of his outstretched right hand. She also noticed traces of saliva on the edges of his mouth. A purposefully handled and fully loaded sniper rifle stood ten feet away from him, surrounded by its bullet casings. A worn golf bag was lying nearby. The rifle was directed to the building across the street, she couldn’t see precisely where.

Meanwhile, Sherlock assessed her with his piercing eyes. A series of unsaid questions in his head, but knew better than to break the silence first. He said nothing, letting her deduce what he’s been doing on her own.

“You electrocuted him.” She said, just loud enough to be heard over the wind. “He’s still alive.”

“Why do you think I’m still here? I need to make sure he stays down until the cleaning party arrived.” He grumbled in annoyance, strongly suggesting her presence as irritating and undesired.

She smiled, the corners of her lips barely reached her eyes. She looked at his face properly this time. Bloodshot eyes and the rough quality of his voice suggested he hasn’t slept for days. “You don’t look happy to see me.”

“Should I look _happy_ at all?” He mocked, not in the mood to withstand her teasing.

“At least you’re not dead.” She shrugged, avoiding his glance.

Sherlock squared his jaw, unable to form a reply for once. Was _she_ the one who’s happy to see him? _Ridiculous_ , he dismissed the thought. Her statement could mean anything and he didn’t have the means to read her like any ordinary person. She was anything but ordinary.

He couldn’t see any change in her, same length of her hair (loose, therefore apparent to see because of the blowing wind), same features ( _long black coat, not thick enough to conceal her shape, nor thin enough to suggest any considerable change in her bodyweight_ ), same eyes (he seemed as drawn into them as before, nothing new there). He observed her make-up ( _professionally done, by herself, obviously_ ), feeling like he was missing something. She was hiding something. She always wear a mask, metaphorically, but this time Sherlock felt she was wearing one that is closer to the literal sense.

“Who is he?” She asked, gesturing at the unconscious sniper.

Sherlock hesitated to form an answer. Should he tell her straightforwardly or not? How much information should he give away? He considered the facts about her.

Her appearance here was almost definitely the work of Mycroft. Only he could disclose his exact location. He found her, how? _Did she reveal herself? Did he look for her?_

He sent her to him, why? But by doing so he revealed a part of his hidden agenda concerning _him_ , a plan still unknown to Sherlock. This realisation triggered a strong reaction of distrust for his brother inside him.

“Mycroft sent you.” He spat. “Why? What does he want?” _Did you sell yourself to him? What have you done? I didn’t save your life for you to rub it on his face._

She held his glare. Her expression gave away nothing. She didn’t falter at his harsh tone. If anything, she became more resolute of her purpose here by steeling her determination that was apparent in her eyes. Sherlock could feel himself boiling with silent anger, or whatever the warm feeling in his stomach was.

“Your ‘cleaning party’ will be here shortly, I’d rather not to be seen by them. I just came by to say hello.”

She turned away to leave. He reached out to pull her, and when he grabbed her right arm she winced in pain. He loosened his grip only slightly, wanting to maintain the upper hand in this situation. Irene glared at him with anger that could match his own in intensity, but he refused to back down until she gave an explanation.

“Answer me.”

“You better be careful, Sherlock.” She hissed, leaning closer to him. “In New York, you won’t survive falling down any building.”

“Is that a threat?” He growled, answering her challenge.

They locked their eyes for a moment longer before she yanked his hand from his grip. He let her.

“The next time I see you again, I hope we will be alone.” She said calmly, regaining her composure. Instinctively, she raised her left hand to cover her right arm. _Injured?_ He mentally noted his observation before processing her words further.

Ah, so she changed her mind to hold anything she wanted to say to him after she found out he didn’t kill the man. She was careful to the point that he cursed himself for not thinking so.

“And when will that be?” He quietly asked, searching her face again for an answer.

She kept her expression firmly cold. “Dinner.”

At that point, he knew it was the end of their conversation.

She smirked at him the last time and walked away to disappear behind the door.

The long cinder at the end of his forgotten cigarette dropped. He tossed it down and stepped on it.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was three days later.

Sherlock spent the whole three days after the rooftop conversation to track her to no avail. She disappeared like a smoke, and New York was not safe. His movement was limited. His last target was the closest link to a higher authority in Sebastian Moran’s network. Taking him down was already a risky step coming from his part, he wouldn’t want to reveal himself just yet.

On the evening of the third day he opened the door to his temporary safe house, a plain flat in a decent neighborhood, a rare find in this city. His mind was filled with the ongoing interrogation of his target that hasn’t yielded any success, and he was contemplating on the idea of contacting Mycroft to confront him directly about Irene. But immediately realised that it would make him seem affected by her sudden appearance and thus give his brother a reason to undermine him.

In the wake of his deep thought, he picked up a peculiar scent on the doorway. It was a hint of perfume mixed with, oddly enough, Chinese takeaway, reminding his brain that he haven’t digested any proper nutrition for almost a week and made it triggered an unwanted reaction from his stomach. Baffled and disturbed, he walked into his bedroom to find Irene Adler asleep soundly on his bed.

She was facing away from the door, nestled under his blanket. Her damp hair and the wide opened door to his bathroom suggested she had been here since at least two hours ago. He spotted her complete attire ( _implying that she wears absolutely nothing underneath the blanket_ , he gulped) folded neatly on his bedside table, as if she deliberately put it there for him to see.

The sight gave him an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu and something else entirely that was seeping into his chest to restrict the beating of his heart for just a brief second. Nonetheless, he had to admit, seeing the woman again in one piece was not unpleasant. That was as far as he can admit to himself concerning her presence and the various uneasy reaction she had (hopefully) unconsciously provoked from him.

He looked away some undeterminable time later from her, walking into his empty kitchen to find a plastic bag worth of two portions of food and a bottle of red wine. The notion of her ‘dinner’ seemed oddly literal this time. He wasn’t sure how he should respond to that.

So he lay down on his couch, stapled his hands under his chin, and waited.

 

Irene came out ten minutes later with weary eyes. She had stolen his second-best dressing gown from his wardrobe. She folded her arms and asked him where he put his glasses.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was tolerable.

They drank wine in whiskey glasses that she found somewhere on the deepest corner of the kitchen drawer. He let her have the first bite before turning to his own food. He finally succumbed to his physiological needs and finished his portion in a less-than-delicate manner. He expected her to make a joke about ‘the hungry detective’, but she kept quiet during their meal.

He felt like he discovered a missing link in a formula that resulted in a wrong output.

He had to rewrite it in whole.

_Delete._

_Confirm theory first, ask questions later._

She disposed whatever left of their dinner and reached out to pour another glass of wine. He caught her wrist midway. She froze, catching his eyes with a daring look; a silent _go ahead_ behind her half-hearted smile and quirked eyebrow.

_Pulse, elevated. Still?_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He tightened his fingers gingerly around her wrist and trailed them along right her arm, pushing up the long sleeve of his dressing gown. Touching her fresh bandages gently, he looked at the late stages of discolouration and innumerable scratches on her exposed skin. He felt her shuddering ever so slightly from his touch.

“Recently broken.” He quietly said.

“Obviously.” She replied, somehow breathlessly.

“If I look at your back,” He leaned closer to her ear. His eyes darted at the skin behind her neck. “Would I be able to find more scratches?” He noted the dilation of her pupils and saw a faint scar on the side of her face. It explained her unusual make up the other day.

“In addition to the souvenirs from Karachi, you mean? Or do you just want to undress me, Mister Holmes?” She stretched her last sentence with a seductive tone.

He didn’t react to her words and pulled away. “You picked a fight with a man twice your size…and not only once since we last met, I presume.”

“They came after me.” She shrugged.

“Who?”

“Killers.”

He scoffed and said angrily, “And I thought Islamabad was enough to keep you away from misbehaving - seems like I was wrong.”

“Did you really think,” She coldly asked. “That I could have a normal life after Pakistan?”

“Of course not.” _You are anything but normal._ “But I’d rather see you alive, Miss Adler. With killers trailing you, everything I did in Pakistan seems wasted by now.”

“Sherlock, I am alive. I already thanked you for saving my life in Pakistan. I am perfectly capable of handling killers now.”

“Which brings us to my next question,” He gritted his teeth. “What are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The upcoming chapters took place post-ASiB in Karachi/Islamabad. In the meantime, please do leave a comment or kudos ;) I could use the harsh words to whip my muse


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry folks, life gets in the way but reading a John Logan struck me with sudden inspiration so here's the next chapter with the dead body I promised!
> 
> Beta-ed by my dear friend alphamikefoxtrot at fanfiction net
> 
> This chapter took place before THoB

The constant whirring of the wheels filled the silence.

It was a roughly 17-hour drive to Islamabad. From the speed they were going, Irene could tell he was determined to make it in less than that. They had been driving for nine hours and twenty minutes without stopping.

Sherlock haven’t said anything more than a word since they escaped the terrorist camp ten hours ago and Irene was getting concerned. He had thrown his blood-covered black robe six hours ago out of the window to be picked up by the strong wind heading east and was now only wearing his usual plain black shirt. He couldn’t care less about his bloodstained face—that and his expression of reserved anger made him look manic under the headlights of the passing cars.

As the eastern skyline brightened with shades of light, she saw his grip on the steering wheel loosened and he took a long breath of silent relief. That was when she finally noticed the blood on his face was his own.

“Sherlock, you’re bleeding.” She had to say it twice before he responded with a curt nod.

“I was. It has stopped.”

“It could be infected.” She paused as if momentarily baffled with her choice of words. “Stop the car, I need to see it.”

He flexed his jaw in consternation, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “We’re not stopping.”

“Fine, just stay put.”

Irene rummaged around the car’s drawer to find a first aid kit and began cleaning his wound. With her practically caressing his temple, to his dismay, Sherlock was terribly distracted. He was aware that she had stayed silent until now to give him time to think. He gritted his teeth and considered telling her everything after weighing the facts since they started this long drive. She deserved knowing, after all.

“What’s in your mind?” She seemed to have sensed his hesitation.

He froze for a moment. “Your execution was unplanned. By now I figure you already know about your MI6 escort letting them caught you three days ago.”

Her smile was sarcastic. “You’re saying that your brother didn’t just send me here to die, I find it hard to believe.”

“He is not that kind of person.” Sherlock felt uncomfortable defending his older brother, but nonetheless it was the undeniable truth. “He had a plan. He let them take you so that he can confirm the position of their hideout. It was perfect; you were to save a longtime prepared SRR operation. They were stuck on a rut and you came at the right time to point them at the right direction. They were about to raid the camp and save you. But someone warned the terrorists. Someone tipped them off about the operation. That’s why they decided to execute you so early, they were planning to escape and they couldn’t afford to take their prisoners with them.”

Her next question put him off. “Does anyone know you’re here, doing this?”

He glanced at her and answered in irritation. “Of course not. Why would I tell anyone I’m going to Pakistan just to make sure you don’t die pathetically in the hands of--“

 “Make sure I’m not dead?” She quietly inquired. “All by yourself?”

Sherlock grimaced. “I have a contact in the MI6 who informed me about your movement. My contact claimed devoid of any other information besides your sudden transfer to their Pakistan field agent authority. I assumed the worst considering the heightened terrorist activity under their radar and the rapidly increasing number of missing field agents.”

“You didn’t know about the SRR operation, did you?”

_Bond Air all over again._

“I just figured it out yesterday when the terrorists started panicking and decided to execute you. It was a separate operation and MI6’s data about it were non-existent. Mycroft’s work, undoubtedly.” He admitted with the smallest hint of shame in his voice.

“So if the terrorists haven’t been tipped off about the operation…”

“There is a big chance I am going to die tonight when the SRR raid the place and you would survive.” His anger resurfaced. “Someone is playing with us.”

She didn’t respond to his words. She finished tending his wound and asked him worriedly. “Sherlock, did you purposely ask your MI6 contact for information about me?”

He blinked. Trying to keep sentiments at bay was getting harder. “Yes.”

“You were keeping an eye on me.” Her tone softened. “Why?”

He turned the car to pull over at a gas station and hit the brake without answering. They were running out of fuel and in need of supplies. He took a cap and a pair of glasses from the car’s drawer. They would have to suffice as a disguise in the time being.

“Stay here. Keep your head down and wait.” He said coldly.

So she climbed into the backseat to lie down and closed her eyes, trying to sleep her uneasiness off.

 

* * *

 

_Run, he had said. But where?_

_She was trapped in a closed quarters with guards outside her door._

_Twice a day two men would come in. One of them always holding a rope and the other one would ask questions in broken English. She never said anything and they would flog her thrice at the end of every question. As an ex-dominatrix, she tried not to think of the irony of the situation at hand. Not when her life was the one at stake instead of her dominant status._

_Two days passed and after the dawn of the third day they dragged her out. She was blindfolded and thrown into a vehicle. She knew they’re going to kill her._

_They asked her final wish, hoping to reserve the little honour they have left._

_She asked for a text message._

_She heard the sound and met his eyes._

_Run, he said._

_But what happened next? Her memory drew blank._

 

* * *

 

She opened her eyes and covered her mouth to stifle a shout. She was covered in cold sweat and struggling to breathe. Sherlock eyed her through the rear mirror with curiosity in his eyes.

“We will arrive in one hour.” He informed. “You slept for four, despite your nightmare I dare say you’re rested by now.”

She sighed in answer and rubbed her eyes furiously. He didn’t say anything for the next five minutes, giving her time to breathe.

“Why Islamabad?” She asked with hoarse voice.

“My MI6 contact is there and there’s a safe hideout in the city. You will find a bottle of water under my seat.”

She took it and drank as much as she could before speaking again. “Your contact sounds suspicious. He could have deliberately given you incomplete information. How could you find out the exact number of their missing field agents but not the SRR operation?”

“I hacked their database.” He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to trust my contact blindly, Miss Adler. I had to do my own research. But you’re right, that’s why we’re going to visit him later.”

“What are you going to do?”

“He’s handling the necessary documents. Your new passport and ID, the plane tickets…I’m taking them from him. Afterwards, I’ll put a gun to his head and make him talk.”

 

* * *

 

When they entered Islamabad, it was late morning with clear sky. The traffic was heinous as they entered the city. They were going to be delayed for a considerable time as they were heading to a northern part of the city just outside the border.

Irene was seated on the front seat once again. Her head was turned to her side to observe Sherlock intently. She was amazed at how he seemed to be terribly stiff under her gaze and trying to ignore her continuously. That wasn’t going to work with them stuck together like this for another good half an hour, so she started to bait him into conversation.

“You’re quiet.” She simply said.

He didn’t answer at that. She decided to ask him about last night, suppressing her discomfort for the sake of curiosity. “Last night, after you told me to run…what happened?”

Sherlock turned his head, meeting her eyes at last. He assessed her firm expression and realised. “You lost your short-term memory due to shock.”

“I think so.” She replied. “It’s all a haze in my head. The next thing I remember is the streetlights along the highway from Karachi to Hyderabad and you,” She tilted her head. “On the driver’s seat, blood on the side of your face. You drove furiously.”

“It was adrenaline’s high.” He said dismissively.

“How did we escape?”

He went silent for a moment, searching her eyes. “How’s your back?”

She blinked and bit the inside of her bottom lip. “My back is fine.” She lied.

“No it isn’t. I only cleaned your wounds with alcohol because we didn’t have time to cover them properly. You slept on your side earlier, you’re still in pain. You’re holding back.” _And you’re doing it admirably,_ he thought. He didn’t see her flinch even once. At first he was sure it’s because of her own adrenaline’s high she didn’t feel any pain, but even during the 15 hours of their drive, aside from her slightly restricted movement, she didn’t show any sign of having a recently bleeding wound on her back.

Irene wasn’t sure what she’s seeing in his eyes, something akin to admiration? It made her slightly irritated. She didn’t need it, not now when they could be dead in this foreign land anytime. She certainly didn’t need the unfamiliar feelings it triggered inside her.

“You don’t remember trying to push me away while I was tending you? You were very insistent.” He lifted his brow.

“What?”

The sound of horns made Sherlock turn his gaze forward to see the line advancing. He shifted the gear and lifted his foot from the brake, leaving her unanswered question hanging between them.

 

* * *

 

They stepped out the car thirty minutes later in front of an apartment. Sherlock told her to put her headscarf back on and now she was sweating uncomfortably under the sun. It was midday and she was sure the temperature is more than 30 degrees Celsius by now.

They climbed two floors up, passing three doors on each floor. Irene couldn’t hear anything behind most doors. From a couple she could hear cluttering noises of people inside of even smell strong spices of the food they’re cooking. She assumed the rooms were mostly empty.

When they reached the apartment of Sherlock’s MI6 contact, she could sense something was wrong. Sherlock eyed a pile of envelopes on the floor next to the door. He then turned his attention to the door’s handle, it was spotless.

He looked around suspiciously. “Come closer, we need to get out of here as soon as possible.” He pulled his shirt’s sleeve to prevent his hand touching the handle directly and pushed the door open. She crowded him from behind and held her breath.

A man was waiting for them inside.

Irene winced at the sight of him. Sherlock slipped into the room and motioned her to get inside.

“Close the door, careful not to leave any prints. Don’t contaminate the crime scene.”

She closed the door behind her. “Your contact.” She said quietly, trying to look anywhere but the man’s eyes.

They were frozen in absolute horror and his pupils halfway visible beneath his eyelids. His eyes almost rolled fully into his skull. His head was tilted back and his jaw opened widely because someone stuffed a piece of black cloth inside. This was their first sight of the room as he was tied onto a chair facing the front door. The curtain behind him opened halfway and a line of sunlight illuminated half of his face from behind.

“Mid 40s, smoker—“ Sherlock gestured to his fingers, they were slightly yellow on their tips. “Strangled, by something plastic—“ He took three long strides to his side and leaned closer to point at the marks on his neck. “Killed yesterday afternoon. The mail arrived this morning.” He jammed his fingers inside his mouth and pulled the black cloth. “The killer, or killers, left us something.”

There was a piece of paper inside the bundle. The words on it were written in uppercase. _To disguise the handwriting, of course_.

 

                DEAR HOLMES

                                I HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR TRIP

                                LET’S PLAY SOME MORE

 

The lines were peculiar, as if someone had written them with shaking hands. Behind was an address of a place somewhere in the city, tomorrow’s date, and a time: 2000.

Sherlock folded it in two and stuffed it inside his back pocket. His heart pounding faster, he was thrilled at the prospect of being challenged by a potentially very dangerous adversary.

“What is it?” Irene asked him. She saw his lips curled to form a smile.

“An invitation.”

Despite their situation, the ease in his tone made her heart skipped a beat. He was in his element and it felt good for him. She, on the other hand, was unnerved by his excitement, but at the same time relieved to see him in this state. He was gaining confidence and that was good for them.

She certainly hoped so.

Sherlock searched the man’s pocket for a clue and was surprised to find a wallet. He opened it and raised his brows. “He’s not my contact.”

Irene stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“American journalist,” He held out the man’s ID. “I remember his name. He was reported missing in Afghanistan last week. No existent families, according to the picture of his dogs in his wallet.” He flipped it to her to show a picture of three dogs—all German Shepherd.

“You’ve never met your contact.” She said pointedly.

“Of course, face to face meetings could be dangerous.” He diverted his attention to their surroundings. “The room has been cleaned,” _Indicated by the strong smell of disinfectant_. “They were very thorough in wiping their traces. But…”

He walked to a small drawer beside the bed and opened it. There was a safe inside.

“They didn’t touch this,” He said as he examined it. “They were too busy.” It clicked open after he entered a combination.

Irene peered beside his shoulder to look inside. There was a sealed, thick brown envelope at the bottom. “That would be the necessary papers, yes?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t encourage you to use them more than once, though.” He stood up and waved the envelope. “With the disappearance of my contact and everything that has happened, the passport might be unreliable for long-term use. Burn it after you get out of here.”

She nodded, trusting his judgment on this matter completely.

After they were seated once again inside the car, Irene asked him about the piece of paper. “The one who wrote it… do you think it’s the same person who tipped off the terrorists about the SRR operation?”

“It’s a possibility, yes.” He turned the key in the ignition.

“Do you have any theory about who it is?”

“Two—one, it’s a mole.” Sherlock could hardly think Mycroft overlooked it, but it wasn’t impossible. “Two, there was a leak of information somewhere, considering most of the people at the Government are idiots,” He scoffed. “And someone is clever enough to take advantage of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: SRR = Special Reconnaissance Regiment. Also, my knowledge of them are limited to what's in their wikipedia page. (Please don't hurt me)


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'M BACK  
> And this is where I earn the rating.
> 
> Beta-ed by a dear friend alphamikefoxtrot in ffn
> 
> This chapter took place before THoB

An old man shook Sherlock’s hand enthusiastically.

In his head, he was completely happy. He had made an admirable deal of trading a simple black sedan in his possession with this strange American man’s well-maintained SUV. At first he was skeptical when the man proposed it through a phone call last week. But this afternoon, after checking the condition of the car, he couldn’t be more willing to accept. Maintaining his business was getting harder these days, and he wouldn’t pass this deal.

He even helped the man and his very quiet—very beautiful—wife move their suitcases into the black sedan. They were just moving in and the man explained that an SUV wouldn’t be very convenient for driving in the city. He said they were very relieved he could do this transaction today all of a sudden because they didn’t have time to call him again after last week.

The old man accepted the papers and shook Sherlock’s hand again. He complimented his very good, if not fluent, Urdu speech. The weird American smiled and thanked him.

 

* * *

 

It was 5 PM, one hour after they acquired the new car. They had driven back to the city centre to check in to a hotel. Sherlock presented a French passport for identification and languidly accented his English with heavy French. Irene had to suppress her amused grin as he talked with the receptionist in length about the available rooms.

The female receptionist blushed every time he slipped into French and apologised gently in his low, rumbling baritone voice. Irene mentally shook her head but secretly impressed at his seemingly increased skill in charming people. It was definitely better than his bleeding vicar persona.

Shortly after, Sherlock opened the door to their room and told her to come in first. He glanced both ways at the empty hallway before following her inside. It was a regular room with one bed and city view; he had chosen the sixth floor.

Irene opened one of the suitcases and raised her brows before glancing at him suggestively. The suitcase was filled with women’s clothing.

“It would be suspicious if you board a plane without any baggage.” He said in a flat tone.

“You went as far as buying me knickers for that?” She lifted a black lacy undergarment with the tip of her fingers and smiled mockingly.

“I didn’t buy them myself,” he rolled his eyes. “But they’re in your size, of course.”

“You remember my size,” She stated firmly.

Sherlock just stood there with folded arms, looking at her like a displeased child who had caught red-handed stealing from the cookie jar. Irene sighed at the man, quite unable to see him as the one who saved her from a group of terrorists just last night. If she didn’t know him, she would say he was embarrassed.

“Fine, I suppose I have to thank you for this too.” She briefly weighed in her mind how much she owed him and reminded herself to make Sherlock explain his actions later. For now, she needed a shower. “I’m going to clean up, if you don’t mind.” She took a towel from the wardrobe and walked into the bathroom. “Unfortunately you need to mind the door, Mister Holmes, to keep the terrorists at bay. Don’t worry—there will be another time where you can join me.” She gave him a slow wink before closing the door.

Sherlock glared at the bathroom door for a moment with an unsaid, scathing remark about unwanted gratitude held in his throat. She was returning to her old self already and certainly had overcome her initial shock, but it would take a longer time for her to recover from the traumatising experience.

The sun was setting as he moved to the window to close the curtains, glancing briefly at the traffic outside. He closed his eyes in sudden exhaustion. He thought about the message—the one in his pocket, weighing his conscience. He thought about the notion of spending one night in this room with Irene Adler—the unforeseen circumstances. He thought about the plane ticket in the brown envelope—the flight was for tomorrow afternoon. But in his mind’s eye, all he could see was…

_…the darkened concrete floor around an anonymous woman’s body. She was put in kneeling position, bending forward. Her head was on the ground, several metres from her neck. Sherlock was reminding himself the details of the body again: weight, height, age, cause of death, every detail of her previous health history, every bone she had broken. A flawed specimen would not be accepted for the design; she must be perfect for his cause._

_And she was indeed; he thought as he stepped back from her to assess his craft, making sure everything was in place. The mess, the dirt on her head, her hair, to the smallest bit of leftover flesh under the moonlight._

_He had worn a pair of new rubber gloves and took off his shoes to wrap both his feet with plastic as precautions, trying to keep them clean. It wouldn’t do if all the blood he was staging mixed unnecessarily. He had a clear picture of how the landscape would look like from the eyes of a criminal detective._

_Fortunately, it was a terrorist execution ground and there were better things to do for the Pakistani Authorities than analysing the many and confusing blood samples. Still, he couldn’t take any risks._

_He turned around to check another body behind him._

_Ten minutes ago the man was still choking blood from his mouth. Now he lied motionless, his eyes frozen with fear. The blood pooling around him had stopped flowing from the gaping cut on his neck. Half of his face and his upper torso drenched with blood._

_Sherlock didn’t hesitate when he dipped his thumb into the cut on the dead man’s neck. He could feel the raw flesh on the tip of his fingers through the thin rubber. When he pulled his thumb back it was covered in enough blood for him to do the next part of staging the dead man’s role in his scenario._

_He proceeded to write a word on the man’s forehead._

غدار

_Traitor_

_He then took off his rubber gloves and walked to put it away inside his equipment bag that was lying nearby. From it he took a new pair of gloves and cleaned the scimitar that was covered in the anonymous woman’s blood carefully before turning back to the man._

_He ripped open the dead man’s clothes with his gloved hands, finding no difficulty in doing so. While examining his naked body with cold detachment, Sherlock fully intended to treat him as a mere experiment. Another one of those cold cadavers he borrowed from the morgue._

_Use now, dispatch later. It didn’t matter._

_He killed this man. It didn’t matter._

_The consulting detective had planned to do it since two days ago. Two days since the coldness of his objective spread over and emboldened him entirely._

_It didn’t matter._

_Two days ago, Sherlock observed this man came out of the prisoner’s cell with his comrade after questioning Irene for the first time. He was laughing whilst unconsciously stroking the rope in his hand. They conversed animatedly and the disguised detective was able to pick up some words they spoken. The brute talked about threatening the prisoner further because she wasn’t willing to say anything at all and having a good time for themselves while doing it. Their prisoner was, after all, a fine woman. His friend just shook his head and told him to get lost._

_In the coming days, Sherlock knew the man was still very much eager to carry out his intention of ravishing their prisoner. He could see it in his eyes every time he saw her; the imbecile was undressing her in his mind, imagining the most revolting actions. He knew what would happen if Irene had stayed more than two days in their camp. Knowing how highly she held herself, he was sure she would have chosen to die instead of giving herself to this man._

_His heart rate elevated for the second time that night._

_He took the scimitar and angled it horizontally underneath the man’s pelvis after he spread his legs wide open. With his left hand, he took hold of the man’s circumcised penis to cut it off along with his testicles. Playing the role of a betrayed comrade, he moved to cut carelessly and made a considerable mess._

_As he threw the multilated body part in his hand beside the anonymous woman’s head, he felt numb. His head was pounding furiously as he reminded himself he was almost done._

_Almost…_

_He took off the second pair of gloves he wore and put it away with the first, sealing them with care. If his hands were trembling, he certainly didn’t feel it. He was satisfied that they were spotless._

_The equipment bag clattered in his grip as he ran to a rock hill 300 metres away. A car was hidden behind it. He knocked on the passanger window twice before opening the door. Irene was sitting behind the front seat on the floor of the car, hugging her knees. She stared at him with wild eyes._

_“It’s me.” He said quietly and put his bag on the seat. “I need you to take the first aid kit in the front drawer.”_

_Without saying anything, she stretched to the front seat to reach the drawer. Sherlock saw her grimaced in pain. He wouldn’t ask if he knew she couldn’t do it and he needed to know how far her wounds were affecting her._

_“I need your blood.” He said as he took out two secured syringes from his bag. She handed him the first aid kit._

_“You need my DNA.” Her voice was hoarse. She watched as he took a bottle of alcohol and pieces of cotton from the kit._

_He nodded. “After that, we need to tend your wounds. You were questioned two hours ago, they might be still bleeding.”_

_“No.”_

_“What?” He frowned at her._

_“We don’t have time,” Her eyes held his gaze with startling ferocity. “And after you burned the bodies it would be too dangerous to wait here any longer.”_

_He never said anything about burning the bodies, but she was right. “Fine, I’ll just clean them. They could be infected.”_

_She still looked unwilling, but she didn’t have much choice._

_“Now, give me your arm.” He reached up to flick the interior car light switch and….._

…he heard a muffled shriek coming from somewhere nearby. When he opened his eyes to darkness, in a brief moment of blindness, he thought he was waking up from a nightmare. As his eyes adjusted to the insufficient brightness of Islamabad’s night from the window, a feeling akin to fear gripped him. The ghastly sound he heard was not a dream.

 

* * *

 

After he opened the bathroom door, a cloud of steam came out into the room. The damp air was heavy with heat and the shower was running hard with hot water. The whimpering noise continued and intensified in volume.

Sherlock’s mind rarely presented him with the luxury of confusion, and his emotional detachment kept him away from the most trivial of feelings. But as he saw Irene, he found himself at lost and ever so slightly afraid. She was standing under the shower, bracing herself to the wall with both hands and struggling to stand on shaking legs. The steaming water ran hard over her naked back, exposing all the bruises and open wounds, angry diagonal lines on her white skin, the markings of her pain. The blood had run down the drain a moment ago and he didn’t understand what is happening as she was clearly hurting herself.

“Irene,” his throat constricted in a surprising flood of anxiety. “Stop.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Get out.” She snapped.

He ignored her words and stepped out of his shoes and socks. The slippery bathroom tiles felt warm under his feet as he reached a hand to turn the water off. His clothes were drenched by the time the water stopped.

Irene slid down on the floor, the sound of her ragged breathing echoing in the room. Her eyes screwed shut and her lips trembled. “I’m not done yet.” She muttered angrily, suppressing a sob.

“It’s going to bleed again.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he wrapped her back with a towel. “Can you stand?”

She didn’t answer as she pulled the towel tightly to herself.

A sigh. “Do I have to carry you out on my arms, Miss Adler?” He deadpanned.

Annoyed, but slightly comforted by Sherlock’s irritation, Irene stood up slowly. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

“You’re still in pain and you’re going to sway on your first step,” his tone was flat and emotionless. “Also, you’ve drowned the room. I intend to save you from light concussion.”

She opened her eyes and turned to him. “Fine.” She said icily.

Sherlock froze at the sight of her before him. Her eyes were red and heavy-lidded, the blush on her cheeks had spread to her collarbones and her wet hair was hanging loose in front of her face. He had never laid his eyes on something so menacing and attractive at the same time and certainly a woman never occurred to him as one that could hold a key to produce such result from the complicated workings of his comprehension method.

Irene Adler’s most vulnerable state was also her most dangerous, he decided. He locked the memory of this rare moment away in his mind palace.

Her arm felt fragile in his grip, but he didn’t let himself believe it.

 

* * *

 

Irene was aware of what transpired in his touch. She could feel every single one of them linger and measure their proximity with the increasing beating of her heart. The coldness of the room didn’t have anything to do with her shivers, so did her fully exposed body. Even the pain on her back had become a dull feeling she couldn’t bother to react to anymore.

She sat hugging her knees on the bed, the wet towel with the briefest stench of blood on her damp head. At least three pieces of gauze had been taped onto her wounds by Sherlock who stood behind her on the side of the bed. There were only two other bleeding cuts that she was aware of and he was swabbing them lightly with antiseptic cream, pushing himself too hard to be gentle. It made her stomach fluttered uncomfortably and she decided to stop him.

“I am not made of glass.”

“You are certainly not.”

Nothing else was spoken for a moment.

Suddenly, out of the blue, she burst with frustration. “If I didn’t have five bleeding cuts and a dozen bruises on my back, I might have already fucked you hard and long enough on this bed to discern your doubts and pity for me, Mister Holmes.”

His hand froze momentarily, but he didn’t say anything as another piece of dressing was taped on her back.

“I know why you’re here,” She swallowed. “You unearthed my heart by defeating me in the game and you felt something, you reciprocated. Stop me if I’m wrong,” she stretched her neck slightly backwards to glance at him. His expression was a vacant stare in the corner of her eye. “You never felt _something_ like it and you didn’t understand. Your need to understand how every bloody thing works brought you here, but most of all, you need to convince yourself whether it was real or not.”

Sherlock continued to stare down at her, unmoved. “Was it?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You seem to hold all the answers, Miss Adler. Was it real or not?” His venomous tone contested her tense façade.

Slowly, she turned to look at him fully and slid her feet down to touch the soft carpeted floor. Before she managed to answer him with a blunt statement, he spoke again.

“I killed a man yesterday.” Sherlock informed her in a cynical, non-sequitur way, like giving a favourable weather report in the middle of a barren desert. “It was unnecessary but I did it anyway.”

For a moment, nothing was said. “Was it self-defence?” She said the first thing that came into her mind, hiding her bafflement.

“I said,” He took a breath, as if to calm himself down or preparing for a hit in the face. “It was unnecessary.”

Was he angry with her or with himself? “Who did you kill?” _How far has the damage been done?_

Avoiding her question, Sherlock bent down and lifted his hand to the side of her head, gripping stiffly like initiating a half-hearted stroke with taut fingers, his thumb stroking the side of her face. She was almost sure he was holding back with all his might from pulling her hair and strangling her. But she dare hoped he was just uncomfortable in doing such intimate gesture like touching her deliberately because he just wanted to.

When he spoke, his face was inches from hers and it betrayed no emotion, just the depth of his narrowed, cold eyes. “You’re the one who manipulate emotions and toy with people,” he hissed. “Do you think that what I’m feeling is real?” The question came out in a strained voice that made her heart clench.

There was a wasted moment of hesitation. “If I say it is because I can feel it…” Her widened eyes searched his gaze, trying to tell him that she understood the unsaid. “You’ll deny it anyway. A disadvantage,” an angry sneer appeared on her face, a twisted disappointment. “That’s what you call it. So I might as well admit I know it is real, Sherlock, because unconsciously,” she grasped his hand in hers. “You’re showing it to me, right now.” _I can see it in your eyes._

For a moment, she entertained herself with the thought that he wanted to believe her words. He wanted to believe it wasn’t an illusion on his part like it wasn’t on hers. But his gaze wavered from her eyes and he pulled away, breaking his hand free from her grasp. “Right now it’s irrelevant.”

Her chest tightened, suffocated from the distance he put between them. “I agree, it would be highly inconvenient for me to have sex with you in this state.” She said dryly. “Pain would outweigh the pleasure.”

His face hardened and for a fleeting moment she saw distaste in his eyes. Or was it a kind of pain in itself? She couldn’t tell and it only made her frustration grow.

“Wouldn’t it always?” _With you, yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I can't write fluff, I really can't.  
> But tell me what you guys think!


	6. Chapter 5

The next twelve hours in the room dragged on without much word spoken due to the anxiety that filled the space between them. Stretched on the bed with her scarred and bruised back exposed, Irene tried to chase away her thoughts and emotions for the sake of a brief nap. She hadn’t slept much since her detainment and yesterday’s long drive from Karachi was no better rest than before.

 

At one point in the night, she woke up with the intention to dress herself. The wounds on her back had dried slightly and the air was getting cooler. She took a familiar-looking dressing gown that was lying on the bedside next to her and wondered whether he had left it there deliberately for her. Immediately, she realised it was another action that his yet-indigestible form of sympathy towards her produced. Dismissing the thought as quick as it came into her mind, she tried not to wince and stretch her arms too much when putting the gown on. The stabbing sensation on her back gradually started to return and it brought back the bitterness from the claustrophobic terrorist prison she was confined in. She had survived with the dark feeling of frustrating desperation in the early days of her imprisonment. However, as her execution day came closer, it had turned into acceptance and something else she had never meant to hold against her memory of a certain detective.

 

On the reminiscence of him as an unexpected comfort for her previous oncoming death, she looked around the room to find Sherlock seated near the window with his eyes wide open. His fingers stapled together in his usual thinking pose and his hair was damp from the shower. Irene found herself contemplating in the sight of his profile framed by the Islamabad moonlight. She didn’t really care if he had found her staring at him openly like this. Rather, she was interested in figuring out what his reaction would be in the wake of her straightforward admiration.

 

At one point in the night, he turned his sight back into the room to meet her eyes. Sherlock didn’t anticipate the apparent yet still heavily veiled fondness in her stare. Identifying it as a challenge for him to react, he stared back with what he felt as an equal of her blunt unspoken statement written on his face. It was an honest mirror reflecting her feelings for her to see and she understood; he was answering his own question.

_Do you think that what I’m feeling is real? I can see it in your eyes._

 

From that moment on, the hours that flew left unspoken. They held their gaze until the moon disappeared and faint morning light replaced it reluctantly.

 

Until finally her seemingly endless patience with his marble façade ran out at the five words that broke the silence.

 

“You’re leaving Pakistan this afternoon.”

 

“You’re trying to get rid of me.”

 

“Irene Adler is dead.” Sherlock stood up and walked to the nearby table where the brown envelope laid on. He took it and raised it to her like an offering, an olive branch, hoping to finally get some sort of closure in one part of his plan. “You’re a free woman.”

 

“Exactly.” She approached him with calculated steps and snatched the envelope from his grip impatiently. Her nails created noticeable dents on its now crumpled surface. “I make my own decisions, Mister Holmes.” Before he could protest further, she slipped a hand into his trousers’ pocket and took out a piece of paper they had found in the dead journalist’s mouth. “This is why I’m not going anywhere.”

 

He pursed his lips slightly and took a step back, uncomfortable and cornered. Her proximity seemed to have triggered a peculiar effect on his thought process _again_ that he had to re-evaluate his words repeatedly in his mind before carefully saying them. “That…would be against the purpose of ensuring your safety.”

 

“I’d like to see you try and stop me.” A challenge she delivered by taking another step forward to close what distance left between them. “It’s not about my safety. You assume that I would be a liability.”

 

“Not at all.” He was quiet for a moment before continuing in low voice. “I think we are more than capable of deceiving one another and it will eventually distract us from our main objective.”

 

“I disagree.” She murmured softly, taking out the edges from her words. “I’d rather let you think of this as an experiment of our potential in combining both our mental and physical capacity to solve a problem.”

 

“Experiments are prone to failure.”

 

Her expression wavered and she gaped at him. “What are you afraid of?” He opened his mouth to interrupt in protest, but she wouldn’t let him say anything just yet. “You do realise that I am your only chance of help because you can’t trust anyone else on this side of the world. Not after the disappearance of your contact. I’m going to see us both coming out of Pakistan alive in exchange for you saving me from imminent death. Don’t be so difficult.”

 

Sherlock grasped the meaning of her words perfectly, but he wasn’t ready to give up getting away from her just yet. “I don’t need your help.” He spat. “I managed to aid myself with a convincing disguise in a terrorist prison for three whole days undetected to make sure you come out of it alive.”

 

“I never asked you to rescue me.” Irene gritted her teeth and gripped his collar forcefully with one hand, pulling him closer in fury. “But you did it, and you have to face the consequences alongside with anything you wanted to achieve with your glorious act of chivalry. Keep the smug satisfaction from your successful attempt to prove yourself as better than me once again. You’re stuck with me.” She said with all the bitterness she had mustered in that dark terrorist cell.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat. Despite the intensity of her eyes and the strength of her grip on him, she felt soft against his body. He suspected it was because she dominated some of his sensory devices as an unconscious statement of sexuality on her part as a woman in every sense of the word— _her sweet smell that had nothing to do with the hotel shampoo she had used in the shower, the warmth of her skin as a natural response to the lowered room temperature during the course of the night, the rise and fall of her bosom in every breath she take as a measure of maintaining her anger_.

 

He detested himself for being so weak, for staring at her lips as she spoke her poisoned words in that cursed, sensual voice of hers. “If I did save you to prove anything,” He hissed furiously, turning to resentment in his last attempt to distant himself from the physical awareness of her being. “It wouldn’t be about me gloating as the victor in this _game_ we play.”

 

“The Great Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective in the world, regards himself as a modest messiah.” Irene said with disdain practically dripping from every word. “Congratulations, your narcissistic need of holding yourself higher than mortals has been fulfilled either way. Now that you have understood the workings of sentiment within yourself, you dismissed it as a weakness.”

 

“You’re wrong.” Sherlock raised his tone, but he had gone too far. Their faces were now only a hairbreadth apart and he could feel her breath, a warm breeze, the epitome of everything he had tried to run away from. He covered her grip on his collar with his right hand, but didn’t do anything to make her let him go.

 

Her eyes widened at his touch, but she didn’t look away from his eyes. His fingers felt cold and taut on her knuckle. “Am I…?” She whispered. Repulsion still apparent in her voice, but, out of sheer impulse of Sherlock’s proximity, her lips had parted slightly in anticipation.

 

A flash of pain was apparent in his eyes as he leaned closer to her, bringing his shadow to eclipse her sight entirely. “I’m not standing here because of a weakness.” Before she could say anything, he stole her breath, sealing her lips with his own in a deep kiss.

 

* * *

 

 “A goddamn leak right in front of our nose. How could _anyone_ let this happen?”

 

“The fucking Head of MI6 is shouting down the phone and I want an explanation now.”

 

“Where the hell is our ground contact? Is he on site? He bloody well should be!”

 

“Sir! We just received a cable, our target has been neutralised at…”

 

“I want a report written ASAP…”

 

Mycroft Holmes clasped his hands and waited for a very long time until the waves of panic and confusion receded. His staff had been running all over Whitehall and yelling profanities for hours now. _A glass of brandy now and a promise of cigarettes later_ , it was everything he needed. In thirty minutes, his superior would be calling and expecting him to turn in a detailed report of everything that has been happening in Pakistan. From the cocked up SRR Operation to the spontaneous hunt of the terrorist group and ended with the ambush at a small village near the border where they nearly escaped Pakistan. Despite the leak and the wasted fifteen hours, the result had been pretty much what he expected, except for one thing.

 

He had received the early reports from the SRR commander. Enclosed in the digitally-rendered, hastily written file were a couple of low-resolution photos depicting an area that seemed to be some kind of an execution ground. The highlights were a couple of burned corpses they found and a badly damaged VHS tape. One of the bodies was female, it said. She had been decapitated and identification was virtually impossible. The only option was through the dental records. One of his field agents had written a footnote about a possible scenario of betrayal within the group that triggered a conflict at the execution of their lone female prisoner.

 

Mycroft pondered the picture in his hand for a moment— _charcoal, human, woman?_ —and he wondered briefly about his brother. He thought about what supposed to happen if there hadn’t been a leak at all. He considered the impact of her unplanned death on his brother.

 

Maybe it was a good thing, he decided with a chug of brandy to lessen the pressure in his throat. Maybe that night at his house was the best thing that could ever happen between Sherlock and that woman.

 

This way, nothing would change.

 

* * *

 

“Go on.”

 

Sherlock proceeded to trail the side of her neck with his lips, breathing deeply to accommodate his dizziness— _intoxicating,_ _every bit of her_. She was a challenge he could not resist with all the fervour and attractiveness she possessed in every word coming from her mouth— _the hoarseness of her whisper, most definitely the result of arousal_. Not to mention with the rush of excitement triggered by every intimate gesture they could manage in their current position,— _lingering strokes, burning scratch of nails—_ he could only think of one possibility that was going to happen very soon. Clearly, she was every bit of Delilah who personified the downfall of a man, or men, considering her professional history as a provocateur of sexual nature.

 

She could have been bluffing all along, encouraging him further into their act of coupling that was never meant to bear any revelation concerning their shared longing of each other.

 

_No_ , he dismissed the line of thought and decided the likelihood of her showing him the face beneath the metaphorical mask she wore only to succumb into momentary weakness is unthinkable.

 

Of course, it was dangerous, like every other game they ever dealt their hands in. With vulnerability practically oozing from the surface of their naked skin and little to no space between their physical selves, their emotional state was on the turning point of sentimentality. There could be regrets later and many other intellectually unappealing future prospects that could discourage them from discovering each other further. There was also the matter of risking this newly found connection between their equally brilliant and yet utterly different minds. Did he really want to dissect her, have a try at unraveling her very core and exposing her to his own principle of basic emotions— _fear, hate, love_?

 

If only she could---

 

“It’s okay.” Sensing his hesitation and doubt, she brought his face to hers and kissed the side of his mouth softly. She smoothed the hair on the back of his neck and gripped his shoulder to bring him closer.

 

He turned his head slightly to capture her lips again, drinking in her absolute presence that drowned his entire senses. The softness of the dressing gown pooling at her feet floored him and he tilted his head back a little from the kiss. One of his hands stroked the side of her breast to resist her pull, just slightly. “Is it?”

 

Irene, now completely bared to him, sighed impatiently into his mouth in answer and moved both of her hands to grip the lapels of his already unbuttoned shirt. “ _Yes._ ” She said in a no-nonsense tone. Fully attempting to silence any protest she knew he would try to verbalise despite her invading tongue in his mouth, she undressed him and unbuttoned his pants in one fluid movement.

 

Overwhelmed by the warm feeling of their messy kiss, Sherlock became aware of her hands pushing down his pants as soon as he heard the clicking sound of the buttons of his shirt falling to the floor. When he tried to draw himself away, she gave him some incentives by shoving him backwards onto the bed. He fell and realised he was already fully naked by the time Irene followed him to cover the entire length of hard planes of his body with her more delicate figure. Unexpectedly enjoying the friction of their skin, thinly layered by sweat, his defensive instinct kicked in as a reaction. He rolled them around to trap her body beneath him, restraining both her wrist on her sides. “Wait.” He coughed the word and paused to catch his breath.

 

Irene looked up to him with a frown, breathless as well. For a second she suspected that he was still trying to run away from her and his feelings. Her jaw tightened at the undesirable thought and she closed her eyes briefly to calm herself. She counted to three, ignoring the throbbing wounds on her back and the equally affecting body heat of Sherlock who was still caging her. When she put on a cold façade and opened her eyes to face him again, her heart clenched abruptly at the sight of him. The softness in his eyes she would never thought he was capable of showing, the rumbling sound of his uneven breath drawn from his slightly swollen lips, the crease on his forehead and the only sign of his uncertainty.

 

He was drawing deeper breaths, balancing his inner emotional turmoil with raw physical desire. His eyes were soft and on fire all at once, studying every inch of change on her face, like he was still trying and failing to read her after all this time. Releasing her wrists to lean down on his elbows, he glanced briefly at her body and nervously swallowed. “I—I’ve never…”

 

She lifted her finger to his lips, “Doesn’t matter.” Irene pulled him again for a kiss to convey the real meaning of her words. One of her hands slipped under his and their fingers tangled together briefly before she pulled it to her breast, encouraging him further by biting his lower lip. His shudder and the tightened hand emboldened her, and she lifted her hips to meet his in another effort to coax some sort of reaction out of him, make him forget his reservations. His now obvious arousal grazed her stomach and she could hear him gasp in surprise. She continued grinding against him before he suddenly brought his hands on her hips and stopped her.

 

Sherlock had decided that he did have this side of him all along, hidden somewhere in the depth of his mind, behind the weight of his brilliance. The Sherlock Holmes whose need was the very instinctive desire to relieve this burning pressure on his stomach, to delve into mindless pleasure promised by this one and only woman he ever yearned for, to merely seek his way into her flesh, under her skin, into her head. Every single crude act of passion passed through his mind, and for once he didn’t feel any revulsion towards himself for being so low. The burden was one that he could share with her, alongside any longing they ever felt for each other, because she was his equal in every way and he had never been so sure of anyone else in his life.

 

Irene gasped in half pleasure and surprise. He had settled himself on her and she had felt his fingers trailing on her inner thighs before stroking the flesh between her legs earnestly. With his growing confidence, she felt more comfortable and, in a paradoxical kind of way, exposed. Sexual desire was her specialty and exposing someone else never made her to feel the same. Their mental connection somehow led her into a sense of ease she never experienced with any other person. Despite her preference to women who were more likely to allow her to maintain her dominant role emotionally and sexually (even though this also extended to men in some cases), none of them had ever come so far as establishing anything beyond the physical sensation in their sexual act.

 

He kept working his fingers until she tilted her hip impatiently. Their eyes locked when he plunged his fingers between her folds and she moaned his name in between his stroking her inner flesh. Then in a sudden awareness of her building pleasure, he dipped his head lower to catch one of her nipple between his teeth.

 

“Well, you’ve failed to convince me of your virginity, Mister Holmes.” She gasped and felt him smirking in response to her playful remark. He added another finger and intensified the motion of his strokes, reaching a spot that made her squirm. Distracted with her reaction, Sherlock wasn’t prepared when she suddenly sneaked a hand between them and took his almost-hard erection in her grip, stroking him several times. He froze and heard the sound of his own guttural groan rather than felt it coming out of his mouth. On that moment, Irene used her advantage to bring him onto his back and sprawling between her legs.

 

He stared at her with widened eyes, his fully blown pupils fogged with lust. She was straddling his thighs and with the morning light coming through the window on her side, she looked utterly stunning on top of him. Her flushed body glistened with sweat, some of them gathering on her collarbone. In pure instinct, he lifted his upper body, used both hands to hold himself straight behind him, and licked the pooling sweat in the hollow of her throat. She whimpered—a new sound he noted and immediately stored in his mind palace—and kept on stroking him firmly. His hips began to jerk following her strokes and he quickly held her wrist. “ _No._ ” Sherlock lifted his forehead from the joint of her neck to look her in the eye with a new kind of determination. “I want to feel you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait.  
> If you're following Adlock fanfictions, I know what you're thinking. "Oh god no, not another one." But I just had to do it, okay?  
> I won't apologise for the chapter ending.
> 
> Beta credits goes to alphamikefoxtrot


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd and unbritpick'd (yeah I know, sorry).  
> This chapter is for everyone who keeps encouraging me to write more!

The woman arched her back, wordless exclamations with what little left of her bated breath falling out of her parted lips. Somewhere in between each of them was his name over and over again, incomplete and utterly maddening. As he categorised the sound as unique desire, associated it with the concept of her person— _Irene, Irene Adler—_ and the sensation of building ecstasy along with the burning friction of their skin when she rolled her hips against his, he combined all of the processed information to be stored deep in his mind palace. When added with the clenching of her muscles of her arse in his grip and around him—inside her, the swarm of multiple sensory experiences overwhelmed his brain and his whole being. He could biologically and, surprisingly, emotionally empathise with her body and mind. In the microsecond of this thought process, he gasped involuntarily and the most logical word slipped from his mouth, “ _Woman…”_

 

Irene closed her eyes and half-smiled at the word he so passionately uttered, albeit unconsciously and certainly assisted by the combination of pleasurable chemicals in his brain. Nonetheless, a whole different kind of warmth ran through her veins and fuelled the fire in her stomach. She preferred to think it was driven by the most genuine part of him previously untouched by others, regardless of his physiological responses. She was endeavouring to uncover his soul, and this was a chance that she had been waiting for. But would he yield to her? Would he trust her just enough to strip him off his defences? Somehow, the questions became more important the longer they spend time in each other’s company. Behind her lids, unshed tears began to form out of many conflicted thoughts in her head mixing with the return of burning pain on her shoulder’s back. She bit her lip to suppress the building pressure in her throat. Yet, as Sherlock kept moving beneath her and grounding her to the reality of their connection, she couldn’t stop a sob from escaping her lustfully parted lips.

 

He forced an exhale and a deep frown, misinterpreting her different, wavering low tone as a form of disagreement or dissatisfaction. His unfocused eyes searched for her face and found a pair of gleaming orbs, moist and tender. A reminiscence of that night in the desert, the same wild eyes tinted with pain. “What—“ But she already bent down and silenced him with a kiss before he could question anything. The image of vulnerability and her taste in his mouth melted all pretences of restraint.

 

“Just...” After a stolen breath and another peck on the side of his lips, she muttered, “Stop thinking.” The latter words came out as a surprised moan; he had jerked his hips upwards and sheathed himself further into her. She hadn’t expected him to be an excellent novice in this matter, but he was still a novice and this was her area of expertise. Irene intensified her rocking motion and observed his reaction, keeping herself just above carried away to concentrate on his part of pleasure. The pain on her back made it easier for her to stay sober, and she briefly regretted that they wouldn’t reach the same high together. Just watching and feeling him giving in to his raw desire was worth it for her; even almost cathartic. It felt like a penance for every pain she had ever induced. Every painful sting on her back was nothing compared to watching Sherlock Holmes giving himself to her at last. And in equal respect, she gave herself to him. Not entirely, but just enough for this moment of scorching desire.

 

Sherlock automatically followed her increasing rhythm, but not without difficulty. Every single friction of her warm flesh and wetness sent sudden jolts of pleasure up his spine, and he was so close to falling apart. He couldn’t control the almost-wistful noises he made and hated to admit she could do this to him almost instantly without much effort. To gain a measure of some control, he once again sought out her clitoris and continued his ministration. The difference being, this time, he also felt his own movement inside her on his fingertips and it only encouraged him further to make her reach the same degree of intensity.

 

She let out a high-pitched moan of his name, filled with longing and something else entirely that she would come to recognise as affection. Pain and pleasure mixed into one, it sounded unfamiliar in her voice, and yet, it felt natural all the same. ” _Sherlock_.”

 

And so he knew it was the voice that would haunt his dream in the coming nights, calling him from the depths of his memory, in the corner where she reign over the side of him undiscovered by nobody else but her.

 

* * *

 

Cold hands adjusted the man’s tie with a sharp tug. The man himself was practically covered in sweat and it had nothing to do with the marginally damp atmosphere or the dress suit he was wearing. He was dressed for a funeral, like the owner of the cold hands had intended. To give a sense of theatricality, they said. A white carnation in his breast pocket, a pair of shining shoes, black suit and tie, and a couple of C4 on the inside of his jacket to make sure he wouldn’t ‘stray from the path’, as they so kindly put it when they fitted all the wires to the sophisticatedly slim detonator in his back pocket.

 

“Now, now, stick to the script, okay? Don’t forget to start with your full name, date of birth, all basic information and everything else after that, especially about your lovely daughters. We don’t want you to ruin your funeral with collateral damage, do we? And it would be nicer all around if we still have your body for your family to cry on and bury next to your father, like a real family man. You’ll have a grave your children and grandchildren can visit instead of a mere name in the yellowing newspapers and government files with fading typewriter ink. Your name, year of birth, year of death, a traditional inscription of ‘a father and a son’...”

 

The long monologue was spoken with a parody of enthusiasm as the cold hands gripped his shoulders tightly from behind. A pair of lips grazed the man’s ear and he shuddered in fear.

 

“Don’t worry, if the words escaped you, I’ll give you a hand.”

 

There was an earpiece attached to his right ear, and as the pale finger tapped it, he winced as he heard some static noises.

 

“Anyway, contrary to popular belief, going out with a bang is very inconvenient. Good luck, keep in mind that you’re lucky enough to give your own eulogy at your funeral.”

 

The last smile he would ever see before his death was as cold as the owner’s hands. It made the speaker’s whole feature lit up in the most terrible fashion of a cynical executioner, hungry for the dying light in his victim’s eyes.

 

* * *

Sherlock lifted his shaking hand and observed the colour of blood on his fingers. He had the most peculiar feeling of déjà vu in which more than twenty hours earlier he experienced a similar high and had his hands covered with the same shade of red. The side of his neck where she buried her face was wet with the mixture of his perspiration and her tears. She was panting, and he felt a stab deep inside his chest at the sound of her continuous rapid breathing. They had been tangled in each other for a while and Sherlock, having just come down from the height of his first orgasm, realised there was something wrong when she haven’t quite controlled her breathing. He stiffened and tried to free himself from her tight embrace. “The wound behind your shoulder—”

 

Irene didn’t let him go. “Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse and the command was only half as demanding.

 

“Don’t be stupid, I need to see it.” He shoved her arm from his waist and sat up. Looking down, he trailed the side of her bleeding gash lightly with a finger and furrowed his brows. His face darkened as he stared pointedly at her. “I have to replace the gauze with a fresh one. Don’t move.”

 

From the side of her face, she could see him wincing as he stood up. “So,”

 

He spared a glance behind his back to see her raising her upper body with her elbows, noticing the way her face contorted slightly from obvious pain. Clearly, she didn’t listen to his words.

 

“How was it?”

 

The bathroom door opened and he walked in, trying to steady his shaking hand as he turned the tap to wash the blood. “Elementary.” He felt a lump in his throat and coughed lightly before he continued with what he hoped as an even tone in his voice. “The chemicals in my brain are clouding my mind right now; it would be unwise to make any observation in this state.”

 

Irene grinned at his frankly ridiculous response and found herself shaking with laughter seconds later. The tears falling from her eyes were tears of pain instead of mirth, but she couldn’t care less because Sherlock was being—well, himself. “Oh god, help me.” _Give this man a heart to spare mine from breaking_ , she thought as the laugh turned slightly bitter.

 

Sherlock walked back into the room with fresh gauzes in his hand and a deep frown. “What are you laughing at?” Looking at her again, he felt the heat rising in his stomach. She was sprawled on her stomach, the visible part of her face lighting up with laughter and her whole body shaking. He wasn’t entirely sure how to react and it felt like he had been trapped in a perpetual cycle of momentary confusion for the first time in his life ever since they arrived in this hotel room. Never before anyone (or even any _thing_ ) ever frustrated him and incited his desires simultaneously like Irene Adler. And he was still trying to adjust this new side of him into the Sherlock Holmes that he already was. “I don’t understand what could amuse you so when you’re clearly in pain. Stop moving.” He held her shoulder hesitantly.

 

She took deep breaths to calm herself and dried her tears on the sheet. The touch of his hand felt like a brand of an entirely different ache than her bleeding wound. Now that they finally succumbed to their baser, animalistic needs, she longed for more of it. Not just because she didn’t reach the same high as he did,—she knew that his inexperience would rid him of the knowledge of this particular subject—but the yearning for his whole being (everything, mind and soul and body) was becoming unbearable for her. As he gently ripped the drenched gauze from her back, she hissed in pain and she could feel his grip on her shoulder tightened.

 

“Can’t laugh anymore, I see.” Sherlock murmured lightly and wiped her bleeding gash lightly to clean it again before covering it with fresh gauze. He could feel her squirming from his tight grip instead of returning his sharp comment with a remark of her own. But her breathing was beginning to slow and for some reason he felt relieved. After throwing away the bloodied gauze and getting rid the first aid kit, he flopped down on the bed beside her, exhausted physically and emotionally for some reason.

 

She could have sworn that it was unintentional, but nevertheless, she gravitated towards him and closed the distance between them as soon as he lied down. Irene buried her face in the crook of his neck, half of her body on top of his and one of her hands stroking his shoulder. “How do you feel?” she whispered.

 

He didn’t answer, but he pulled away from her embrace to watch her face intently. Her gleaming eyes reflected the light from outside the window and they were still wet from tears. The corners of her mouth turned down and there was a crease of worry between her brows. There was no mask or pretension, and her gaze made him nervous because he knew she was bearing her raw self to him. Well, if they were disassembling their armours tonight, he might as well come clean too. So, Sherlock swallowed visibly and blurted the thought that had bothered him since five minutes ago. “You didn’t come.”

 

Irene’s eyes widened at his statement. She had never thought he could be so straightforward like this, especially in the matter of sex, and it made her stomach suddenly feel warm. A grin crept over her face. “Excuse me?” She asked in a playful tone, as playful as she could be with a hoarse voice.

 

Sherlock flushed at her inquiry, the next onslaught of words were unavoidable. “I’m not _entirely_ ignorant about sex, I have done some research and of course I know the biological signs of orgasm in a woman. I noted—with difficulties—your responses to every stimulation a-and” he stammered uncharacteristically. “I tried to properly stimulate your erogenous zones but I’m afraid because I have no experience with your particular anatomy, I experimented liberally without considering my own limit and since I couldn’t hold back from—“

 

Her lips descended on his in a fierce kiss. She felt the urgency to silence that clever tongue and tangle it with hers before he could finish his sentence. They parted with a delightful moan from her and a pleasant sigh from him. “You are full of surprises, Mister Holmes.” Irene whispered with a luscious glint in her eyes.

 

Feeling slightly more confident after the kiss, he narrowed his eyes, his lips forming a thin, devious smile. “I’d rather you call me with my first name,” The hand he put on her waist trailed down the back of her thigh and Sherlock relished in Irene’s sudden hitched breath. Connecting his lips with hers once again, his eyes wide open with hunger, trying to commit every inch of desire on her face to memory. “Like you did precisely ten minutes and thirty five seconds ago.” Every word dragged out of his mouth in continuous low growls against her lips.

 

That was when Irene felt his fingers reached the aching flesh between her thighs. She let out a heavy sigh and bared her teeth in a ravenous grin. “Well, _Mister Holmes_ ,” She raised a hand to grab the back of his neck, as if she refused to part with his lustful gaze just even for just one second. “What are you going to do for that?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Psssshhhht.

Six hours in, the subject is surprisingly still alive. Don’t know why they’re so unwilling to die, these people. They worth nothing more than insects; kill one and you got another four billion left still crawling the planet, eating up space, and polluting the air. A word to the wise: kill one. Kill one for sport, entertainment, science, meditation, who cares? Just kill one. And then another. And another. And another. Pile their bodies up on the streets, dictators, as a warning for their kind. It’s the end of _their_ world.”

 

A sigh.

 

“This is getting rather boring. There’s eight hours left before the party starts, I’m just wasting my time here. The coffee is horrible. They got better action in Iran. I’m taking a flight to Tehran after finishing the business here to catch up with the latest political heat. You owe me big time for this, Jim. I’ll send you a postcard with this guy’s fingernail attached to it later for a joke. Byeee!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: more of this big bad villain.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/feedback are greatly appreciated!  
> Kudos too, please.


End file.
